


When Home Again They Never Have To Cry

by scribefindegil



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Filk, Fluff, Gen, Post-Series, pines family filk night, with some feels in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribefindegil/pseuds/scribefindegil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The younger twins organize a filk sing-along night for Ford. Feelings ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Home Again They Never Have To Cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azhdarchidaen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhdarchidaen/gifts).



> Based on/follow-up to a drabble on aroford's tumblr about the younger twins discovering that Ford and Fidds made amateur filk recordings in college.
> 
> (Filk is basically nerd folk music. There are a lot of poignant songs about space. It's the best.)

“Hey, Grunkle Ford!” yelled Mabel, bursting through the main door of the former Northwest Mansion. “We got you a present! It’s more nerd music!”

The younger twins were on winter break, and their parents had allowed them to come back up to Gravity Falls for a week. Both sets of Pines were staying with Fiddleford, who had more spare rooms than he knew what to do with and had only filled about half of them with partially-constructed robots.

“Oh, um . . .” Before Ford could properly reply his great-niece launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his waist and squeezing so tight that she knocked the breath out of him.

“Dipper found it all online! He worked really hard—to get some of it we had to actually _call_ people on the _phone_! Isn’t that crazy?”

“I suppose . . .” said Ford helplessly.

Mabel raised her head enough to grin at him, her legs still dangling. “Some of it must be as ancient as you!”

Ford chuckled and ruffled his great-niece’s hair. “As old as me? Well, that must be something.”

Dipper had appeared in the doorway, rolling his eyes fondly at his sister’s antics. “What she’s trying to say is that I looked up some of the songs on those old tapes you gave us and there are a bunch more songs from when you . . . weren’t here. We thought you might want to listen to some of them.”

Fiddleford, who had been talking to Ford before Mabel’s dramatic entrance, smiled and said, “Old tapes? Those silly old things from college? Why, Stanford, I never expected you to be so sentimental as to hang on to them!”

“Aaaaaaaaand,” added Mabel triumphantly, “We made a book with the chords so if McGucket wants to sing them with you he can! Candy helped with the chords; she’s like a music genius!”

Fiddleford chuckled, while Ford merely blinked at the way both his niblings were staring at him expectantly. “That’s, that’s very—thank you, children.”

Fiddleford elbowed him in the ribs. “Well, looks like we ought to plan for a music night while y’all are here!”

And that was how, three days later, Ford found himself sitting in the living room of the former Mystery Shack staring at a stack of printed-out lyrics in a sticker-covered binder, with Fiddleford tuning his banjo beside him. He wasn’t exactly sure that he’d agreed to this, but the children certainly seemed excited, and as long as McGucket was willing he supposed there wasn’t much to be lost.

The night started out light, with sillier songs and jokes and Mabel running back and forth to the kitchen to check on the flying-saucer-shaped cookies she was making. Stan cracked terrible jokes between songs, Mabel recited an original poem in praise of Waddles, and Candy, blushing furiously, performed a ballad she’d written for her music class. It was about a giant robot, and when she was done they all applauded, Grenda pounding the floor until the house shook and Fiddleford looking thoughtful, as if she’d given him some new idea.

After the sun had gone down and the plate of cookies had been reduced to a scattering of crumbs and sprinkles, Mabel asked, “What about the first song we listened to on your tapes, Grunkle Ford? The one that goes like this—”

She sang a few bars and Ford looked across at Fiddleford. He wasn’t sure, after all this time, if his friend would want to sing the old songs that they’d known when they were young and content and not yet wary of the future. But Fiddleford smiled, sadly but not uncomfortably, and said, “Well, Stanford, if you’re willin’.” Ford paused, the weight of the past heavy on his shoulders, but then he nodded.

As the sound of the banjo began again, with Fiddleford’s head hung low and his eyes closed, the others around the room slowly fell silent. In the hush that followed, Ford looked around at the strange family gathered there in the house that had once been his. Stan sat on the dinosaur skull, still pretending that he wasn’t enjoying this at all, but Ford had spent enough time around his brother now to know the tells—and that was miraculous enough, that after everything they’d lost and everything they’d been through, he knew now how to tell the difference between the way Stan crossed his arms when he was bored or defensive and the way he held them when he was actually emotional about something but didn’t want to admit it. Dipper sat on the floor at Stan’s feet, leaning back against his uncle’s legs and clicking a pen as he jotted down occasional thoughts in a small worn pocket notebook.

Mabel couldn’t stay in one place for more than a song or two, perching on the backs of chairs and circulating around to braid everyone’s hair. She’d even gotten to Stan’s—he hadn’t bothered to cut his hair since they left on their boat, and now it almost touched his shoulders and Mabel could put it up into a pair of French braids, which she did whenever Stan let her. At the moment she was lying along the back of the couch, her feet up on the wall and her head on Soos’ shoulder, while Melody, who was sprawled across the couch with her head on Soos’ lap, combed Mabel’s hair with her fingers and wound it into a fishtail braid. Soos’ Abuelita sat in her rocking chair, knitting, and Wendy sat on the other side of the couch with Melody’s feet on her lap, and Candy and Grenda were snuggled together in a pile of pillows on the floor, trying to convince Pacifica to let them paint her toenails.

Ford had been surprised, on their first visit back, by how easily the concept of “family” expanded. Their Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t just the two sets of Pines, but Soos and his Abuelita and Melody, and Fiddleford and Tate, and Wendy and her father and brothers, and Mabel’s friends Candy and Grenda and, later, Pacifica, who’d snuck away from her parents’ party to join theirs. Parts of that night had been stressful—Ford didn’t really know everyone yet, and the gathering was loud enough that he’d occasionally had to step outside to calm down. But every time he had, someone had followed him—Stan the first time, then Dipper, and then, to his surprise, Wendy—and asked if he was all right. He’d spent so long with no one else to care about his well-being that it was almost overwhelming to suddenly be thrown into a situation where everyone did.

In the hush, Fiddleford started to sing. The soft, somewhat nasal tenor that Ford remembered from their college days was still recognizable, but it was older now, more prone to cracking, with a gravelly edge to it.

On the second line, Ford joined in, closing his eyes and letting himself get swept up in the familiar tune. When they’d sung this nearly forty years ago—it felt like a hundred—he’d been barely more than a child, though of course he’d felt very grown-up at the time. He’d loved the song for its story of space and adventure. He’s never really thought about how sad it was. He’d never imagined that he himself would be the lost traveler, wandering through space in search of a home he might never find again. On his travels beyond the portal, sad and alone and believing that he’d remain alone until he died, sometimes he would remember the song, singing it to himself as he sheltered in the caves and forests of some alien planet. Then, singing with friends, with family, even getting home at all, seemed as unbelievable as the story of the song had seemed when he first heard it. But here he was, despite everything.

By the second chorus, he could catch other voices tentatively picking up the song. Not all of them were good singers. Not all of them could carry a tune at all, but there was something about hearing them together that sent a sharp pang through his heart as they sang of the traveler’s hopeless longing for home.

The final chord faded away. There was silence, punctuated by occasional sniffles. Mabel was the only one crying openly, but Ford himself had tears in his eyes, and he’d noticed the way Fiddleford’s voice cracked on the last note.

Wordlessly, Mabel crossed the floor and climbed into Ford’s lap, snuggling up against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her as she cried, quietly, throughout the next song—another that was soft and sad, about travelling so far that you can’t remember your home. In the pause afterwards, as Fiddleford flipped through the song book and Melody brought over a box of tissues with an apologetic smile, Mabel whispered something that Ford couldn’t make out 

“What did you say?” he asked.

Mabel smiled up at him through her tears. “I said I’m really really glad you came back.”

“Yes,” said Ford, looking around the room at everyone—his family, one way or another—who was gathered there, who would be gathered again, for holidays and birthdays and movie nights and sometimes just for companionship, out into the future as far as he could see. “So am I.”


End file.
